
HE BOOK 
THE SINGING 
WINDS 




SARA HAMILTON BIRCHALL 



THE BOOK OF 

THE SINGING WINDS 



J AVENDER for old loves, 
J -^ Roses for the new, 
Heliotrope for pleasure, lass, 
And for sorrow, rue. 

Rosemary lest you forget. — 
Take, or let it be. 
I will have the wholesome pine 
And the open sea. 



The Book of 
The Singing Winds 

Sara Hamilton Birchall 



AK 



1 90S 

Alfred Bartlett 
Boston 



Copyright, 1905 
By Sara Hamilton Birchall 



LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two Cooies Received 

JAN 20 » 906 

Copyright Entry 
lew. 3<7 /?<^ 
//CLASS O- XXc. No. 

/ 3 4 6 XiT 

COPY B. 






To F. C. 

/^OLDEN-ROD, sassafras, 

^* Sweet/ As you pass 

Wait a moment. There 1 s something 

For you. 

Purple asters , scarlet leaves, 

Feathered grass and tiny sheaves 

Of the golden wheat. 

And sweet 

Little orchids that nestle 

In dew. 

A chiW s harvest of a day 

Withers, and is thrown away; 

Yet, because I sought an hour 

For each flower, and because 

Having found, I bring, 

Listen, with indulgent smile, 

While I sing. 

Take the gift, Sweet, — golden, blue, 

Not for its own sake, but only 

Since it is for you. 



THE CONTENTS 

PAGE 

17 THE GATE OF THE SINGING WINDS 

19 SONG OF THE f OPEN 

21 A LA BELLE ETOILE 

23 THE QUESTION 

24 THE LOST FRIEND, I 
26 THE LOST FRIEND, II 
28 THE SOJOURNER 

30 FEBRUARY THAW 

31 SPRING SONG 

33 THE INTIMATE MOOD OF THE WOODS 

35 ALL THE WAY TO FAIRY-LAND 

37 KARZA 

38 HEIGHO.THE WIND AND THE WEATHER! 

39 GALLOPING SONG 

40 THE LITTLE SHIPS OF THE HARBOUR 

43 THE SIGNAL 

44 THE DAY WHEN MY DREAMS COME TRUE 



THE BOOK OF THE 
SINGING WINDS 



The Gate of the Singing Winds 

/^H, it's far by the road of the curving 
^-^ downs 

A-scent with the fresh-ploughed loam, 
There lies the Gate of the Singing Winds 
Where April gets her home. 

And it's merry, oh merry the trooping 

Winds 
That sing on the winding road, 
And light of heart are the early Winds 
That dance with their flower-bud load. 

It's near, so near to the shingled roofs, 
And the cow that lows in her stall, 
But never a lover of fire-lit rooms 
May measure or find at all. 



17 



THE BOOK OF 

The baby comes back from his meadow- 
play 
With a smile on his dimpled mouth, 
When he tries to tell of his day-long play 
With the Singing Winds of the South. 

The boy goes out in the dewy dawn 

Where the early violets hide, 

And he comes with a strange, shy look on 

his face, 
But he tells not where they bide. 

The seal of their kiss is yet cool on his lips, 
And their breath in his mist-wet hair; 
The Singing Winds of the South are sweet, 
And follow wherever he fare. 

But it's merry, oh merry the Singing Winds 
That dance on their grass-grown way, 
And light of heart are the early Winds 
That open the buds of May. 



18 



THE SINGING WINDS 

Song of the Open 

'T V HERE , S a whisper in the orchard, 
■** there's a laughter in the breeze, 
There's a catbird's chuckle in the maple 

tree; 
And the wind has come from westward, 

scattering the maple-keys. 
Oh, it's time to break your fetters and 

be free ! 

All the rain's astir and calling, all the grass 

is wet and brown, 
All the world waits just beyond the 

window-pane; 
And the day is dull and dripping in the 

gray, gas-lighted town, 
But the country's fresh and clean with 

fall again. 

Oh, it's out along the prairie with the cool 

rain in your face, 
And it's out along the river flowing free, 
And it's out across the hill-tops in a 

flying-footed race 
With just your heart to bear you company. 

19 



THE BOOK OF 

There's the prairie curving softly with its 

golden blooms aglow, 
And the purple splashes on its ripened 

flanks; 
And the idle grassy hollows where the 

brilliant salvias grow, 
And the sturdy cat-tails marshal out 

their ranks. 

Ah, the scarlet of the orchards and the 

saffron of the fields! 
Ah, the purple of the vineyards in the sun! 
Ah, the river in the sunlight, flashing 

silver as a shield 
For a moment — and your Indian summer's 

done. 

So it's home along the prairie with the 

north wind blowing chill, 
And it 's home across the meadow 's heaving 

sea, 
And it's home with winter shouting just 

beyond the farthest hill, 
But yet the road is open and is free. 



20 



THE SINGING WINDS 

A la Belle Etoile 

/~\H, who will lodge at my Inn tonight, 
^^ And live both fair and fine, 
With a blossoming blackberry vine for 

a gate, 
And a friendly star for a sign? 

Good sir, my Inn is a gentle Inn, 
The wine is sweet and old; 
'Tis Adam's, sir, with a fine bouquet, 
And the colour of liquid gold. 

The carriages roll on the rocky road 

To a musty house afar; 

But the gentlefolk stop by the blackberry 

gate 
At the Inn of the Beautiful Star. 

Sweet fern, sweet fern for your pillow, sir, 
And a quick-eared faun for your mate, 
And a firefly's light for your candle 

bright — 
Good sooth, we sleep in state. 



21 



THE BOOK OF 

The winds go murmuring by at dusk 
And call you up at dawn, 
To walk through the fairies' handkerchiefs 
And startle a sleeping fawn. 

When day is red on the river's bed, 
And bright on quartz and spar, 
We'll say our short St. Martin's grace 
At the Inn of the Eeautiful Star. 

The blackberry vine is a maiden now, 
With her pale stars in the dew; 
Come back next month, good sir, there'll be 
Sweet blackberries for you. 

We'll wish you luck from the blackberry 

gate. 
Although you wander far 
'Tis here that you'll come home at last, — 
To our Inn of the Beautiful Star. 



THE SINGING WINDS 

The Question 

TJE went up the hill in the 
* -■• twilight; 

(Was it my love, or another?) 
Up on the wind-bitten prairie, 
Up, in the blinding snow-smother. 

My hands will not warm at the fire; 
(Was it my love, or a strangerl) 
I let him pass, all alone, 
Into the night and the danger. 



23 



THE BOOK OF 

The Lost Friend 
I 
TTEIGHO the friend I used to know! 
Heigho the friend I know no more! 
By windy hill and dale I fare, 
Nor ever find his open door. 

He sits alone beneath the grass 
And keeps his smouldering evening fire, 
Nor leaves his latch-string out for me 
As I trudge on through dark and mire. 

Yet once we kept good jollity, 

And careless said, "Auf wiedersehen, ,, 

As I went gaily over sea, — 

Ah, sad it is I come again! 

Heigho the friend I used to know! 
I seek him whom I once called mine; 
Somewhere I think he waits for me, 
And we shall talk above the wine. 



24 



THE SINGING WINDS 

Some moonless night, and I shall go 
From his kind hearth no more to dog 
The wastrel footsteps of the wind 
By lonely road and haunted bog. 

Heigho the friend I used to know! 
Heigho the friend I soon shall see! 
For if I wander far enough; 
I know that he will welcome me. 



25 



THE BOOK OF 

The Lost Friend 
II 

/^\H where's my friend of yes- 
^ terday? 

And where' s the wind of yester- 
year? 
Along the bubbles of the brook 
I look to find their footsteps here. 

I listen for his whistled call, 
I watch to see him down the lane, 
For now and then I still forget 
That he returns no more again. 

He goes to seek another door, 
I would not let him in at mine; 
'Tis long ago I closed my gate 
And let him go without a sign. 

Still I remember other days, 
And would forget the dreary end 
Of all our pleasant years that left 
Me sorrowful without my friend. 



26 



THE SINGING WINDS 

Ah, well, the trees are older now, 
Their green is turning into brown; 
Beside my lattice here I wait, 
And see the weary years go down 

And so my friend of yesterday 
Has met the wind of yester-year, 
And they have wandered far away, 
But left me lonely waiting here. 



27 



THE BOOK OF 

The Sojourner 

T will arise and go; the wind is fain 
1 of me, 

The laughing wind that stirs my climbing 

rose; 
The tiny clusters nod and talk together, 
But what their secret may be, no one knows. 

I will arise and go; the wind is fain of me, 
The rose is heavy in the southern town, 
The wild geese travel northward in 

the mornings, 
The bold-eyed southern spring tears wide 

her gown. 

I will arise and go; the wind is fain of me, 
The last snow melts beneath the gray 

stone walls, 
The green young sedges fringe the 

river-margin, 
And in my heart the Northland calls and 

calls. 



28 



THE SINGING WINDS 

I will arise and go; the wind is fain of me. 
Too long I wait in summer's tasselled hall, 
Too long I dream amid the tulip blossoms, 
Too long I linger when I hear the call. 

I will arise and go to seek the mountains, 
I will return my playfellows to greet; 
Once more the open hills and the sweet 

meadow, 
Once more the virgin Northland's lips 

to meet. 



29 



THE BOOK OF 

February Thaw 

' I A HE road is moist and brown, 
■*• the woods 

Have not awaked from sleep; 
The first bright robin sings his 

song, 
The wholesome west winds sweep. 
I know, within the house, alone, 
That February's still 
A-thinking how he'll make us 

shrink 
With next week's winter chill. 
But yet it seems as if today 
I might go out and see 
A maiden spray of arbutus, 
Or budding maple-tree. 



3o 



THE SINGING WINDS 

Spring Song 

^T*HE trees are black and gnarled and old, 
"■- Beyond, the sunset flares in gold, 
Afar, the amber gates unfold, 
Within, spring laughs on dale and wold, 

The dryads laugh, the naiad sings, 
The ancient, whispering forest rings 
With laughter, and the shy wild things 
Dance with the magic that it brings. 

Ho! Who'll across the world with me? 
I seek, — what seek I? Fantasy! 
The world is broad, the heath is free, 
Our hearts are light. Good travellers, we! 

The spring's awake in Arcady. 

The may-flower blooms, the mossy mere 

Is violet-filled. Good cheer! Good cheer! 



31 



THE BOOK OF 

O listen to the west wind calling! 
O listen to the sweet notes falling! 
O listen to the robin calling to his mate, 
"Love, I'm awaiting you! Wait! wait! 

wait! 
Down in the meadow by the hawthorn tree, 
O listen! O listen! O listen tome!" 



32 



THE SINGING WINDS 

The Intimate Mood of the Woods 

*T S HE intimate mood of the woods is 
■*• not for the one 
Who comes with the sun and the wind and 

the rustle of leaves, 
With careless or curious eyes and feet 

that slip 
On the wandering little paths, and tread 

on the beetle's bronze. 
The rattle of branches confuse him, the 

leaves turn white sides to his gaze, 
And tilt on their stems and mock him; 

he is no kin to their world. 
But he who will come to the woods when 

the fallen leaves are still, 
And the brooks are trilling-full, and the 

ferns uncurl in the wet, 
And the only sound is the leisurely drip of 

he rain from the trees, 
His shall be eyes to see the columbine's 

leaves in the cleft, 
And the pink-petalled Dutchman's breeches, 

quaint fool at the court of Spring — 



33 



THE BOOK OF 

He shall know where the bloodroot opens> 

and watch where the fern uncurls; 
He shall hear the chime of the hermit thrush 

and fit it to singing words; 
He shall see the rabbits mating, and 

catch the faint far trail 
Of fragrance, the arbutus ' herald, hid 

under a carpet of leaves; 
He shall follow the foam-belled brook 

by meadow and glen and hill, 
Till he hear the silver thread of a white 

nymph's song, 
Where the headwater waits to greet him; 

and under a granite cliff 
'Twixt the wilding grape and the waking 

bird, he shall find 
A shuttle of song and a thread of his 

newborn dreams; 
And there in the heart of the wood shall he, 

dreaming, discover his Paradise. 



34 



THE SINGING WINDS 

All the Way to Fairy-land 

A LL the way to Fairy-land, 
-t-^- Follow, follow me 
Down the path along the sand, 
Beside the sounding sea. 

All the way to Fairy-land, 
Choose your pebble, choose, 
Red or white or silver-gray, 
Bedded in the ooze. 

Bedded in the rippled sand, 
Bedded in the weed, 
All the way to Fairy-land 
Choose your stone with heed. 

All the way to Fairy-land 
'Neath a single stone; 
You that are the lucky one, 
Tread your way alone. 



35 



THE BOOK OF 



Say an Ave and make the sign, 
Lift your pebble free; 
Take the road to Fairy-land, 
But say good-bye to me. 



36 



THE SINGING WINDS 

Karza 

TTIGH on the crags of the wild North Sea 
"■" ■*■ Witch Karza watched the storm. 
And her yellow hair blowing, 
And the strong tide flowing, 
And the fisher-wives praying for calm 
on the sea. 

Witch-fire flashes on the crested sea; 
Witch Karza laughs aloud. 
And the boats are grounding, 
And the fishermen drowning, 
And the fisher-wives praying for the lost 
at sea. 

Far up above the calm North Sea, 
Witch Karza calls them in; 
And the dead men hollo, 
And the krakens follow, 
And the priest is praying for the souls 
lost at sea. 



37 



THE BOOK OF 

1 Heigho, the Wind and the Weather! 

TTEIGHO, the wind and weather! 
A ■*■ Heigho, the fragant heather! 
Blue o' sky and blue o' sea, 
Heigho, but it's lonely weather! 

Heigho, the wind and the weather! 
Heigho, the rosy heather! 
There's a lass that waits for me. 
Heigho, lass, it's golden weather! 



38 



THE SINGING WINDS 

Galloping Song 

/^ ALLOP and sing, gallop and sing! 

^-* With the open road before, 

And my good horse laying his hoofs to the 

ground 
As I ride by the shouting shore. 

Gallop and sing, gallop and sing! 
With a windy, cloud-swept sky, 
And the thundering break of the wind- 
roused lake 
In my ears as I hurry by. 

Gallop and sing, gallop and sing! 

It 's far that I must go, 

For my sweetheart lives in a lone cabane 

At the edge of the Northern snow. 

Gallop and sing, gallop and sing! 

We'll kiss in the freezing rain, 

Then swing to the saddle and touch the 

spur, 
And home by the lake again. 



39 



THE BOOK OF 

The Little Ships of the Harbour 

*TpHE little ships of the harbour 
•** Who so proper as they? 
They lightly dip to the racing rip 
That drives with the break of day. 

" Courtesy, cousin, the waves come in; 
Dip to the crested white, 
Dip to the lazy curling swell, 
Dip to the bubbles bright." 

The little ships of the harbour, 

Little coquettes are they; 

They courtesy deep to the blustering sweep 

And bob to the ripples gay. 

"Courtesy, cousin, the sun is bright 
Under your heaving keel; 
The gray gulls fly in a yeasty sky, 
Courtesy as they wheel.' ' 



40 



THE SINGING WINDS 

The little ships of the harbour, 
Lightly they clear the bar; 
With a freshening gale and a singing sail 
They travel fast and far. 

"Courtesy, cousin, the spray is white, 
Feathering off your bow; 
The white-caps break on the dimpling lake 
Like little flakes of snow." 

The little ships of the harbour 
Frightened and frail are they; 
It 's driving gale and a close-reefed sail, 
And back at the close of day. 

"Sister, where is the harbour-mouth? 
Sister, I call— I call! 
The waves I knew were soft and blue, 
They were not these at all! ,, 



41 



THE BOOK OF 

The little ships of the harbour 

Dip to the waves no more; 

The swells slip by where they used to lie, 

And break on the sunlit shore. 

' 'Sister, sister!" they call afar, 
" Sister!" under the sea, 
"Hearest thou?" and the ripples run 
And carry the cry to me. 



42 



THE SINGING WINDS 

The Signal 

A little, lonely, wistful chap 
^ ^ Looks out at dusk for me ; 
The lamplight shines behind his 

head, 
I see him wave to me 

He smiles when I wave back to 

him, 
Through evening mist and rain; 
I'm glad the boy I used to be 
Remembers me again\ 



43 



THE BOOK OF 

The Day When My Dreams 
Come True 

' I A HE tall ships lie at anchor, 
A The white ships go abroad, 
Their candles burn by the holy urn 
For the mercy of the Lord. 

The ships come in from the roaring seas, 
The ships come in from the blue, 
With silk and silver and gold and wines, 
And wealth of king and Jew. 

The anchor falls beside the wharf, 
The owner stands at ease, 
And smiles to see his goods come in 
That came from overseas. 

'Tis not my ship. Let the boatswain call 
And the sailors haul with a will; 
I whistle between my teeth on the wharf 
And scan the low sea-hill. 



44 



THE SINGING WINDS 

I watch the white of each rising sail, 
Above the creaming blue, 
And think perhaps it has come at last, 
The day when my dreams come true, — 

When my ship lifts over the harbour-bar, 
My ship that I always knew, 
With her barefoot sailors singing loud, 
The day that my dreams come true. 

I know each knot of her cordage brown, 
Each curve of her graceful keel; 
I know her blazoned golden name, 
And the motto carved by her wheel. 

All day I lean on the rotting wharf, 
And watch the ships come in; 
They are not mine, I know, but yet, 
Some day my dream will win. 



45 



THE BOOK OF 



Ah, sweet it is when the silver sails 
Heave up on the singing blue, 
For then I dream that my day has come, 
When my dearest dreams come true. 



4 6 



JDOSEMART lest you forget.- 
**■ When I come again 
Up the old familiar path 
In the autumn rain, 

What if you've forgotten, lassl 
Say, what shall I do? — 
Here is heartsease by the gate 
With the bitter rue. 



THIS FIRST EDITION IS PRINTED FOR ALFRED 
BARTLETT, AT THE PRAIRIE PRESS IN 
CHICAGO, U. S. A., NOVEMBER. 1905. 



JAN 20 1906 



